even with nothing to say
by likestarsintheink
Summary: [a 4x09 insert] In the years she has known him, he has never stood so silently before her. Never has his gaze permeated her defenses in a way that made her feel so broken; fragmented into thousands of shards were her confidence.


**Written for a series of prompts which are detailed at the end of the story.**

**Disclaimer:** All characters are property of ABC and Marlowe. I'm simply a girl with a lot of feelings.

* * *

_Excuse me for I am the ocean, and I will starve for you_  
_Will you know how to stay brave?_  
_Such fragile moments we share_  
_You are my everything_  
_Even with nothing to say_

**_x_**

She isn't quite sure what time it is when the room stops spinning, when the ceiling rights itself and gravity works in her favor. One eye open to survey the surroundings, the other closed to ensure balance. She's surprised to find herself on the floor, glass scattered beneath her feet. She is faintly aware of the sting along her wrist, the crimson stain that coats her pallid flesh and the wood at her side. The smell of whiskey is overpowering, overwhelming her senses, threatening to pull the bile from the depths of her stomach.

The knock startles her from her thoughts, heavy and persistent against the door by her side.

Hesitating for a moment, she notes the glow of her phone by her side. Eyes easily dodge the notifications of 12 missed calls as she focuses solely on the clock.

_2:23am._

And the knock comes again. Louder this time. More panicked.

Using the wall as her mooring she pulls the heavy mess of limbs into a vertical position, bracing herself with a shaky inhalation before she greets him.. The warm trickle of blood from the reopened wound trails down her index and middle fingers, thick and heavy in droplets as it hits the hardwood. It'll stain, she notes, but somehow she can't bring herself to care about anything other than the burning in her chest. A case that hits entirely too close to home.

One more knock before the phone in her hand ignites with an incoming call.

When she slides back the deadbolt, chain and lock, she isn't surprised to find Richard Castle impatiently burning in a hole in the welcome mat.

The furrow in his brow is quickly softened into concern upon the sight of her. Cerulean irises don't hold their familiar sparkle, substituted with something dark, something uncharted and uncharacteristic. There is a lingering depth that sends a shudder through her skin. What scares her most that he is silent, the weight of questions that he communicates to her without having to make a single sound.

In the years she has known him, he has never stood so silently before her. Never has his gaze permeated her defenses in a way that made her feel so broken; fragmented into thousands of shards were her confidence. The foreign sensation of her vulnerability on display.

"Castle," she murmurs, propping her body between the frame of the door and the heavy oak itself. The waves of liquor steal her balance and she's caught in the undertow, stumbling weightlessly over her own feet. Her eyes narrow in pain at the feel of a sliver of glass implanting itself into the thickened skin of her heel, "what are you doing here?"

Heavy fingers splay against the door, applying minimal pressure to allow it to open inward. There are no words uttered as he pushes into her space, arms coming to wrap around her lithe figure. And it's so easy, then, to fall into the strength of his embrace. The scent of his cologne is heavy against the worn fabric of his shirt, and she allows her body to tuck into him. Burying her face in his neck, she gives into the scotch and the safe familiarity of his skin.

Her arms lift with great difficulty to rest over his shoulders, where her fingers come to lace at his nape. The whisper of her name falls from his lips as he presses his hands against the backs of her thighs, urging her to lift them around his waist. After a moment's hesitation she obliged, wrapping her limbs around him. Using the toe of his boot, Castle presses the door shut behind him and stumbles through the dark of her familiar apartment with her thin frame in his arms.

She's too light; there's no resistance. She has given in. Given up.

He dodges her bed and her body registers the surprise, desperately debating if he might finally give into his temptation and press his body into her. Take advantage of her state, because at this point, she would allow him. Kate wants to feel something beyond the fear and pain that has engulfed every moment of her day since that shot rang out and stole from her the fearless facade of brick that she's so carefully built around her heart. A brick slips loose as he lets a hand slip from beneath her thigh to shut the seat of the toilet, and another as he carefully sets her down to sit on the edge of the lid.

There are no words exchanged, none needed, as he leaves her for a moment to grab a towel from the closet in the hall. The sound of running water fills the room as he dips the fabric beneath the stream and kneels before her, refusing to meet her eyes as he trails a finger along her forearm, stopping at the deep gash just above her wrist. He gently presses the towel to her skin, and pulls it away once the terry cloth was stained with her. She feels the shudder, the heavy breath exhaled from his lungs as he wrings the towel in the sink, droplets clinging to the porcelain before he applies fresh water and presses it to the laceration.

The process is repeated until the coagulated mess is cleared from her flesh, a stark white bandage wrapped around her wrist with enough pressure to stop the steady stream of blood. It's then that he steps to the claw foot tub and turns the water on, watching for a moment as the steam drapes them both in a humid shroud. Maybe it's the drinks, or the vulnerable state she's in, but she doesn't offer protest as he tugs at the bottom of her shirt. With great difficulty she raises her arms, allowing him to lift the fabric away from her skin.

When the shirt's clear of her torso, he meets her eyes, not allowing his gaze to drift to the bare expanse of her chest. She offers a brief nod, an approval, before she staggers to her feet. On her own, she tucks her thumbs into the elastic of her sweats before she bends to drag them past her hips, pooling the fabric at her ankles. A heavy hand curls at his shoulder as she steps free, now standing before him completely bare.

There isn't a single sound from him as he helps her to the tub, his eyes never dipping beneath her collarbones as she slides into the hot water, allowing it to engulf her and warm the chill she hadn't noticed within her bones. There's a brief panic, so sudden it brings goosebumps to her skin.

Richard Castle is watching her bathe. She's completely naked before him, and yet, he's anchoring her.

Soothing her.

Loving her.

Despite the infinite list of flaws she has listed in her head.

Kate closes her eyes for a moment, losing herself to the warm waters and soothing lavender. She is faintly aware of his movements in her room, the sound of rustling sheets, the flick of a match head against the strip of flint. The sound of bare skin against the cool tile floor as it approaches, his hand descending into the water to pull the plug on the tub. Digits flutter so close to her flesh, the burn radiating from her ankles upward.

Castle's hands slip beneath her arms, lifting her body from the tub. She can feel the muscles of his biceps flexing against her, and then at her waist as he wraps the towel around her torso. A moment passes in limbo before he shakily grasps the ends of the towel and drags the cloth over her abdomen, down and over each thigh. He's careful to avoid the apex of her long limbs, the swell of her breasts. Her body is inspected with care, the towel catching every droplet of water from her flesh, before he extends his hand to lead her back to her bedroom.

The flicker of candlelight illuminates the room in a serene glow, sheets folded back on her side of the bed to allow her to crawl beneath the fresh linen. He nods towards a folded set of underwear and sweats he's set at the edge of the bed, but she shakes her head, forgoing the extra layers for lack of energy. Beneath the familiar sheets, her head falls back against the pillow in defeat.

The heat of his gaze radiates a white hot glow across her skin and she follows the scorching path to meet his eyes. His brow crinkled with question, with worry, as he holds her gaze. The way his muscled arms are folded protectively across his chest, And here he is, months later, after all of the times she had mistreated him. After she had pushed him aside in an attempt to protect herself from feeling something beyond the spark of lust.

Here he is taking care of her when she's so desperately close to losing herself.

A shaky breath is pushed from her chest to extinguish the candle on the nightstand, watching as the heavy stream of smoke curls skyward. She watches as the wisps dissipate into the darkness of this unfamiliar space that she doesn't recognize as her own home. Even through the darkness, her hazel irises found the shadow of his figure, gazing on with the hope that the silent plea of her heart could be heard over the irrational drunken din of her mind, working overtime to rationalize the way her skin longed to find home against his.

Eyelids flutter shut, fighting a losing battle between the alcohol and warmth that enveloped her senses. She meant to tap her fingers at the bed beside her, meant to grant him access to the empty slot in her bed. She meant to follow him home and into slumber, but the words won't come.

The silence can't speak for her; instead, it wraps its arms around her and suffocates her into slumber.

**x**

**This was written as a result of a bet I lost to a fandom friend, in which loser had to fill whatever prompt the winner desired. This story came about from the prompts:**  
_-half past two A.M._  
_-sound of silence_  
_and_  
_-selfless acts_

**Thank you to the perfect people who have taken the time to urge me to stop procrastinating and finally post this.**

All reviews are greatly appreciated.


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